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confessed is innocent. He’s not. Jordan was wrong. We almost always are in this business, and that’s how it should be—even though we fool ourselves with every case, or, at least, we try to. Rodriguez is guilty.”
    â€œJordan didn’t think so. Her father’s right that this new confession wouldn’t have changed her views. A confession is what you’d expect if our theory of defense is correct.”
    â€œYeah, but Jordan doesn’t get to decide, and you don’t get to win arguments by saying what she would have thought. She’s not here to speak for herself and she didn’t nominate you to speak for her. So don’t tell me what Jordan would want.”
    â€œShe’d want whoever did this brought to justice. She wouldn’t want her client blamed because blaming him is the most expedient solution.”
    â€œHow do you know Rodriguez isn’t telling the truth? Leave it to the police.”
    â€œI’d certainly like to know the identity of whomever she was planning to meet when she left me. That message could have been a trick, or a trap. Maybe someone was trying to lure her away from her apartment.”
    â€œOr maybe there was no text. Maybe there was no cab ride.” Rebecca faced me across the room. She held my gaze long enough to make clear she’d said more than she intended, but that the words, irretrievable now, would not be called back.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said, her jaw trembling. “Or, rather, I’m not. Anything could’ve happened. Anyone could have done this if Rodriguez didn’t. My loyalty is to Jordan. You were the last person with her. Who knows if you had a motive? Or if you needed one. I don’t know you. Why should I believe you?”
    I stood shocked in front of her.
    Rebecca walked past me, opened the door, and held it open for me to leave.

Chapter 9
    Even though I’d faced Chen’s suspicion in the interview room, that had been cop suspicion, unthinking and reflexive and utterly familiar. A Maxwell family birthright, you might call it. Rebecca’s words, by contrast, had entered me like a sword, the wound remaining fresh. Falsely accused, I found myself missing my father. No doubt he could have told me a thing or two about the little death that premature judgment brings.
    Later that evening my phone chimed with a text from Rebecca.
Sorry,
it said.
I miss my friend and I’m scared. Call me when you know where the cab driver went.

    When I’d explained the situation, the man on the phone began apologizing, telling me the company’s policy of not giving out information about employees or customers. And anyway, he said, the police had already talked to the driver a week ago. I cut himoff. “Your driver was the last person I saw with my friend the night she was murdered. He picked her up around twelve thirty, made one stop in the Tenderloin, and continued to a second destination.” I gave him first Jordan’s address, then my own.
    It finally ended with him promising to give my number to the driver, with no promises I’d be called back. Part of me hoped this would be the end of it. Rebecca’s mistrust had made me wary of further involvement in what, after all, was a police matter. Two hours later, however, a phone call summoned me from bed and I rose with a sigh and went down to the street.
    It was the same guy—heavyset, white with a dark goatee—who’d driven the cab we took that night. I got in the back and he pulled away. “Meter’s been running since dispatch called.”
    I didn’t say anything, and he simply drove. His eyes kept checking me in the mirror. It suddenly seemed too great an effort even to open my mouth, let alone make words come. I wondered what was wrong with me. Instead of feeling energized by taking the first concrete steps I’d taken since Jordan’s death, I felt pinned down. I suppose it was the futility of it